Still Deciding Please give my story a chance
by Brooke360
Summary: Inspired by The Hobbit. Dale is a pessimistic, anti-social, gluttonous ass. Walter is a happy, go-lucky blacksmith. The two of them are to embark on an adventure to slay a dragon. The task will change both of them to their very core. (Give it a chance, it's actually very very different from the hobbit)


Inspired by The Hobbit.

All stories have a beginning. An opening. Some cluster of words that get the ball rolling. My trouble is finding the part of my story I want to jump in at, and how much I want to tell straight away. I suppose I should start with:

Once upon a time.

Once upon a time, many years ago, there was a man. Not one of those jolly bloakes drinking tea and hosting dinner parties, nor one who has quiet get togethers with close friends. This was an antisocial, pessimistic, grumpy man with a bad back. He lived in a stuffy, dark, shamble of a home, never opening a window nor a door to let in the faintest of breezes. He was gluttonous, and ate constantly. Bagels, cheesecakes, loaves of bread smothered in butter. Hams and turkeys with a sugary glaze. Indeed, it was a wonder this man was not fat. Rather, he was built. Not like a professional wrestler or anything of the sort, but a man who occasionally does a push up or two. Although Dale did not (That's his name, if you were wondering. Dale Barret). He was, however, not to be deemed attractive, as his rugged, dirty, brown hair draped over his eyes, his facial hair had grown unkempt, and he was as pale as the moon. Not seeing the sun can do that to a man. He dressed in layers upon layers, his dark brown tunic under a maroon robe, and his stockings going up to his knees, covered by his muddy green trousers. This was because the weather was dreadful. Cold, wet, and in this particular world, homes didn't have electricity to warm them up. They had to make little fires in the firepits. But Dale was too committed to the hermit life to go get some flint. Or wood, for that matter. Heck, his food was dropped off on his porch by a man he paid quite well. He came into money upon his dad's death. Eaten by an ogre, tragically. But we'll get into that later.

So he huddled up in his clothes, and sometimes wrapped an itchy wool blanket around himself, sipping a cold coffee he had to grind and strain himself. Now, you may have quite a grim picture of how Dale's life. You see a blackened room in which he sits on some uncomfortable furniture (Perhaps the reason for his bad back) and stares at a wall. And while that can be accurate, it is not the entire picture, for Dale is something of a thinker. He thinks about people and all the pointless little things they do, like making their bed or washing out their trousers only to dirty them up again. He wondered why he was him, sitting in his little shamble of a home, and not some king in Edunton, rolling in riches. And he wondered who would remember him when he died. All the pessimism in the world cannot negate the solitude of being alone. He wondered if he should write a book, but then remembered he wasn't much for words. So while Dale appeared quite boring, he was truly something of a wonder, waiting for an oppurtunity. A moment to grasp tight, to hold on to and say, "I've got it! I've got it!"

This is where our story begins. While he sat in his little chair, trying to balance his clay coffee mug on his knee, there came a loud "thunk, thunk, thunk," at the door. Dale jumped in surprise and the mug fell to the wooden floor, shattering into a hundred peaces. He glowered at the cup, then the door, standing swiftly and marching over to yank it open. "What do you want?" He growled the moment the light fell into the house. He squinted his eyes until they adjusted onto one of the city guards, a somewhat tall man wearing a large brown jacket and carrying a thin sword.

"Town meeting. Attendence required," the man informed.

"Town meeting?" Dale asked coldly, "What for?" But he immediately decided he didn't care to know. "I think not, I'm just fine here."

The guard pointed his sword at Dale's chest. "Attendence required," he said again, threateningly, daring Dale to continue his protest.

Furging guards, waving around their authority sticks as if they owned the place. "Fine," Dale muttered. "At least give me the courtesy of putting on shoes, and perhaps a coat. Frostbite can be quite painful, so I've heard."

The guard nodded and left as Dale collected himself. After a few minutes of cursing and mumbling jibberish, Dale swept up the broken glass and put it into a neat pile to be taken care of when he got home. Then he walked the few hundred meters into town. The town formed in a circle, and in the middle of it, the podium where speeches and announcements were often given. The immediate property was mostly small merchant stores, and going up the four perpendicular streets were dozens of houses. The rest of the town had already arrived long ago. Dale supposed nobody remembered him until only moments ago, and rolled his eyes. Well, it wasn't as if he made an effort to be sociable. The cold autumn air bit at his throat. "Damn all," he muttered, his breath crystallizing in front of him as he did so. "Damn that, too."

The town folk were talking amongst themselves anxiously. Many were curious, others more on the frantic side. "The dragon, oh the dreadful dragon!" They would holler. "Nobody's safe anymore!" Dale thought to himself: Well maybe if you stayed inside, as I do, you wouldn't be so worried about a dragon. And what about my supper? His butter biscuits were left on the table to grow stale. It annoyed him to be surrounded by so many emotional people, yelling and crying and being dramatic overall. I mean, a dragon? C'mon now. Circle of life.

Just then, the so called "president" or "mayor" or "king"... Whatever you want to call him. Head of the town. He stepped out onto the podium and let his voice boom, louder than every townsman put together. "SILENCE!" He called. Of course, they silenced.

It was quiet for but a few seconds, and Dale shifted the weight from his right foot to his left. "As many of you know..." He began, "There is a dragon living in these parts, stealing our traveling loved ones and making them into a lunch." His face was grave, looking to each face in the crowd. But not Dale.

Someone in the audience opened her mouth to shout "POOR BILLY! BLESS HIS SOUL!"

"Ma'am, please be quiet." The man said in an irritated tone. She lowered her head.

"Oh, Billy."

The "mayor" cleared his throat before continuing. "And... This tragedy does not appear to be resolving itself. (Dragons do not usually stay in one place for too long) Therefore, the men on my board have decided to take volunteers to valiantly slay the beast! A hero's task, truly."

"A hero's death!" A man called from the silence. The rest of the audience shouted their agreements, their doubts, voiced their concern for such a plan.

"But who among us would wish for such a task?" One asked.

"Who would take that kind of risk?" Asked another.

"A man who wishes upon death, surely!" Asserted a third.

Dale just wanted to go home. None of this heroic nonsense. No life-risking dilemas. Just butter biscuits and a warm blanket. His fingers were beginning to grow numb as he clenched and unclenched them.

The town folk were all speaking at once, but no one was stepping up to the plate. People were pushing others, demanding they make a sacrifice for the good of the town. Some were quietly contemplating. Some looked fearful, as if they might be dragged out of the crowd and made to go themselves. Some looked to be on the edge of both jumping on the podium and running back into their homes. There was a mix of emotions all tangled with an expectation for the first hand to go up. Dale intended on watching it play out.

But just then, a large man next to him accidentally stepped on Dale's foot, which shot pain directly up his spine. "OI!" He shouted angrily. Every head swiveled to Dale, growing silent before erupting.

"DALE? DALE BARRET, OUR HERO?" They questioned.

"How can we leave our fate to a hermit?"

"We're doomed."

Dale tried to say nay, to raise his voice loud enough to be heard. "No, no! I was not volunteering! The man next to me step on my foot!" He screeched. But in the confusion, his words were lost. And people who were not mortified grasped onto Dale's shoulders and shoved him forward again and again until he almost face slammed the podium. He crawled up, if only to get away from the grabby hands, and found himself face to face with the president. "I did not volunteer," he said desperately.

"Indeed you did, my boy." He said with pity, and then turned to the audience. "Will no one else stand by this poor, unqualified, brave, destined-to-die man?" He asked. "Will no one come to his aid?" He guilted.

"I am not going to slay a dragon!" Dale protested. Nobody cared to listen.

A new voice, strong and confident escaped from the crowd. "I shall assist this poor, poor man!" He called. Dale looked for the man the voice belonged to, and recoiled when he saw it was none other than the man who had stepped on his foot!

"No, no, no, I'm quite alright on my own," he blundered, wanting nothing to do with this man, and then questioning why he just implied he would go on this quest. He most certainly would not.

"Nonsense, you haven't so much as left your house in months. You'll need someone of my expertise." He said.

The president looked between the two of them. "Walter, you don't have to do this..." He began.

"Oh, but I must. It is my destiny, I feel it in my bones." Dale was delighted that he, himself had been given the same oppurtunity to call it off, as Walter had (Sarcasm intended). And honestly, not surprised by how willing the people were to send off this "problem" citizen to his death, and how concerned they became when it was the happy, confident, egotistical blacksmith. Who stepped on Dale's foot. Without so much as an apology, I might add!

Dale groaned, and once again tried to weasel his way out. "I shall not go on this quest!" He shouted to the crowd.

"Someone get the horses!"

"Did you hear me?" Dale called.

"Walter, sharpen the swords!"

"I said no!" He bellowed.

"We need armor!"

Dale gave up, sighing in exasperation. It appeared he would be moving to a new town, and without any of his food, it seemed. Quite a shame, he had grown found of his chilly little shack.

Walter was now on the podium, and clamped Dale on the shoulder reassuringly. "Fine day for an adventure, is it not?"

"Not." Dale said bitterly.

And so the towns people gleefully gathered the supplies, happy that they would soon be safe from the dragon with no risk to their own lives. Walter left for the blacksmith shop to collect a few good, sharp swords and heavy metal armor. Dale... Just waited. Standing on the podium. Feeling quite frustrated and awkward.

When Walter and the other people began to return, they approached in a crowd. Some men carried bags, others armor. Walter carried the swords. And they stopped in front of Dale and dropped the goods at his feet.

"Good luck," One said, before leaving.

"Don't die," Said another.

Dale scowled. Walter thanked them graciously.

The supplies on the ground looked to weigh a great deal, and apparenty there were no horses to be spared. The two would have to heave the items on their own, and this made Dale particularly peeved. "No horses for the brave heroes of Verutium?" He questioned.

Walter looked to Dale slyly. "And sacrifice them to the terrible dragon? I think not."

This guy is serious, Dale thought. He seriously wants to go take down a dragon. The two of us, who have never fought a day in our lives. A dragon. He shook his head disbelievingly. Then he bent down and grabbed at one of the bags that contained food and water, throwing it over his shoulder. It weighed down on his back instantly, and he felt a sharp pain go down his spine. All those years in an arm chair had not done him any good. Walter grabbed the second bag effortlessly, with his near-perfect physic, and then handed one of the swords, the smaller one, to Dale. It was simple enough. A standard blade, perhaps thinner than most. The handle was brown, with a ruby jammed at the end of it, and the words "To the death," were embroided around it. The sword was a great deal heavier than Dale had expected, and his arm fell slightly when he took it from Walter. This would take a while to wield, he thought. Walter also handed him a scabbard, which he tied around his waste and placed the sword in. Walter did the same.

They began walking down a dirt path that lead away from the town, and Dale did his best to not speak with Walter unless absolutely necessary. Partially because he hated the guy, but also because he was trying to devise an escape out of this mess. His ideas were as follows: Run away. Burn down the forest. Write the dragon to come eat Walter. Eat all of their food so that they had to turn back. Stab Walter. Stab self. Ditch Walter and live in the rich town of Edunton. Pretend to be insane so that Walter takes him back.

Quite obviously, all of these ideas were absolutely terrible. For one, Dale was a gutless fool, who could never pull any such stunt. For two, Dale wasn't sure his own town wouldn't put out a hit on him if he abandoned the mission. They were real commitment phobes. And, however determined he was not to admit it, or even think it, an adventure almost satisfied the desire for an oppurtunity he had been awaiting. And he had it, he did. This was his moment. Perhaps he would come back a hero. Perhaps he could walk with his head held tall, his stride a bit swifter (Perhaps he would die a horribly painful death).

Walter liked to chat, that much was clear. Not about anything relevant. Random things, like the process of making a sword, striking hot metal on the anvil again and again. Or his many friends and him drinking at the pub. He went on and on about the importance of always having a weapon on you at all times, for you never knows when a foe will jump out to get you. Dale only half listened, thinking more of the ache he had in his feet, the sensation of needles going up into his spine... Walking was not a talent of his. Years of nothing, and now something? It wore him out the second he began.

They walked for hours, and Walter soon grew rather quiet. They had both become sore. Dale was dripping sweat and trying to hide his heavy breathing, but eventually the fatigue became too great. Every step made him wince. He was tired. He was hungry. He was annoyed. His head was light, vision blurry. And before he knew it, he was coming face to face with the cold, hard ground.


End file.
